The Art of Running Barefoot
by Thunderstorm Kick Drum
Summary: "Death isn't about dying; it's about learning how to live." Kurt's decided that hospitals are too white. He wonders how someone who sees life in such vibrant technicolor could stand being there. But she has no choice. Leukemia is colorblind.


**Warning: ****Implied M-Preg**

_ **Dedicated to Phyllis Liedeke, who shows us every day that it can be beaten, and to Herm Liedeke, whose memory tells us that courage is not avoiding death, but learning how to live until it comes.**_

"Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."

- G. K. Chesterton

"Viktoria! Wait up!"

Viktoria Hummel-Anderson laughed, turning on the heels of her boots to raise her eyebrows at her best friend. Nico Hiks came running up to her, his ginger-red hair falling in his eyes. His nose was dusted with a thin layer of brown freckles; not enough to be your stereotypical ginger boy, but enough to make him look a-fricken-_dorable_ as he ran to her side, panting out a breath, his glasses sliding down his nose. Viktoria laughed, pushing them back up with the tip of her index finger. Nico's nose wrinkled, his big, doe-brown eyes gazing at her in that way he had.

"Hey, Sexy. What'd ya need?" Viktoria asked, re-adjusting her bag on her shoulder. Nico swatted at her arm playfully at the old nickname.

"Just wanted to ask you if we had any homework in Calculus, Booty-licious," He responded. Viktoria held her behind in mock hurt.

"Hey, I got the Filipino curves! Don't mock!" She complained. Nico bumped her side lightly with his almost-non-existent boy hips. Of course, Viktoria didn't have to worry in the slightest about her weight; admittedly, she was a bit curvier than most girls their age, but she had a tiny waist and a lithe physique. Nico bent to pick up her dance bag from the floor, noticing that she seemed to have lost a bit of weight in her thighs, hips and breasts... actually, now that he thought about it, she had lost a lot of weight. In fact, her usually olive skin was a stark white, her honeyed hazel eyes tired.

"Hey, are you feeling okay?" Nico asked, laying his hand on her forehead. She didn't feel warm to the touch, though. He laid a gentle hand on her throat, checking for sweat. She swatted at his hand.

"I'm fine, Nico; I'm just tired." Nico raised an eyebrow; that's the response he's been getting for almost a month now. He growled, throwing her bag in the back of his car. Viktoria skipped around the back, laying her hand on the passenger door.

"Pop the lock," she said, pulling insistently at the handle. Nico rolled his eyes at her impatience, tossing his glasses at her. Viktoria caught them deftly in one hand while still pulling at the door handle.

"Viktoria, you've known this for months now; to get the car unlocked, you must remove your hand from the door handle," Nico explained slowly, as if talking to a small child. Viktoria made a big show of pulling her hands off of the door handle, wiggling her fingers exaggeratedly.

"Look, Pa!" She yelled, waving her arms back and forth. "No hands!"

Nico laughed, closing the trunk as she hopped into the passenger side. He took his time trying to close the rusty trunk of his old, beat-up Chevrolet. He finally had to hop up and sit on it for it to come to a full close, opening the back door to his car and setting in his violin on the back seat, next to Viktoria's dance bag. Said girl had her feat propped up on the center console, tying her custom-made ballet shoes so tight her skin around the tongue of the shoe turned red. Nico smiled at her as he adjusted the seat of his car so it was leaning back further.

"Aenellie?" Viktoria asked. Nico shot her a bashful, lop-sided smile and nodded. Aenellie was his younger sister, who just recently turned 8. Nico won't let her ride in the front seat yet, so Aenellie sits behind him with her bags, his, and his violin. Aenellie was hopelessly claustrophobic, though, so insists both Nico's seat and the passenger seat be as far up to the dashboard as they can get.

"What 'bout you? Has Gwen called you yet?" Nico asked, trying to turn the attention away from his more-than-slightly-OCD little sister. Viktoria's eyes brightened, as they always did when to conversation was turned to her family.

17 years ago, there was a scientific break-through of epic proportions; Dr. Issac Castellen came up with a medication, taken easily through a pill, that enables two people of the same gender to reproduce children. Nothing was quick about the procedure at all, as it took Dr. Castellen almost thirty years to complete his serum. Dr. Castellen's brother, Charlie, was a homosexual man whose life dream had been to be able to have his own children with his partner. Charlie Castellen was later killed in his Wisconsin home by local teenagers, tying him to his bed while his boyfriend was away, stripping him bare, and writing hateful words on his chest with a sharpie marker. They then proceeded to practically choke him with toxic windshield-wiper fluid, slash his whole body with a knife... and then light his house on fire. His boyfriend committed suicide a week after finding his partner's charred body. Dr. Castellen then relocated to a town called Lima, Ohio, and became the head doctor at the hospital closest to there.

One of Dr. Castellen's patients was a man named Burt Hummel, who had suffered a heart attack a year back and was having spikes in blood pressure and was taken to the ICU. Dr. Castellen came into Mr. Hummel's room a couple days after he was admitted, planning on checking his heart-rate, and saw a boy pacing outside of his room, talking animatedly on his phone. Dr. Castellen had ducked into the nurse's station, shamelessly eaves-dropping on the boy. With his flimsy hand motions and purple button-down, sparkly black pants, black bow-tie and woman's boots, Dr. Castellen could easily tell the boy was gay. He noted how much the boy reminded him of his own brother.

"No, Blaine! It's... it's fine! The doctors said he's going to be going home as soon as they get him stabilized..." Dr. Castellen caught from the conversation, the boys high pitched voice carrying down the hallway. Dr. Castellen heard a slight murmur on the other end of the line, and the boy laughed, despite the look of worry on his face. "Okay... okay... whatever you say, Blaine. Just keep telling yourself that..." The boys eyes flickered to Mr. Hummel's hospital room. "Okay, it looks like he's awake. I'll call you with updates, 'kay? I'll talk to you tomorrow, Love; love you too! See you tomorrow." The boy clicked the off button of his phone, brushing off his shirt with thin, pale fingers before strutting into the hospital room. Dr. Castellen counted to ten under his breath before walking into the room after the boy.

"Hello, Mr. Hummel. Is this your son? He sure does have a sense of style, eh?..."

Dr. Castellen waited until Mr. Hummel's son left before he asked him, sitting in the chair next to Burt's bedside where his son had just been. Burt Hummel eyes his doctor warily, taking in the blue eyes sparkling with excitement and the salt-and-pepper hair.

"Can I help you, Dr. Castellen?" Burt asked, narrowing his eyes. Dr. Castellen waved him off nonchalantly, before pausing and lowering his hand, remembering how Charlie always did that and musing on how much his deceased brother still rubbed off on him.

"Please, Mr. Hummel, call me Issac. May I call you Burt?... No? Okay then..." Issac trailed off, digging his fingers agitatedly into his palms. What if he was wrong? God, he hoped he wasn't wrong...

"Mr. Hummel, if you don't mind my bluntness, is your son homosexual?" Issac asked, deciding the direct approach would work the best. Burt's fists clenched, and he started to get angry.

"Listen, you, if you mean to insult my boy..." Issac cut him off.

"Mr. Hummel, that is not my intention at all; I actually had a brother who liked men. I admire how bold he is, not being afraid to show his true colors in public... Charlie was like that, too, but Trevor was too afraid..." Issac mumbled, remembering how Charlie and Trevor would smile and joke around whenever he visited, and how they did things like finish one-another's sentences like it was the simplest thing in the world. Charlie was so comfortable in his own skin, but Trevor, on the other hand, had abusive parents as it was, and hid himself from almost anyone. Issac shook out his shoulders, not wanting to think about the two of them.

"Yes, then... yes he is. Why do you ask?" Burt asked in a gruff voice. Issac noticed he had a spot of food on his cheek, and, without thinking, pulled the hanky out of his pocket and handed it to Burt. Burt's eyes widened curiously, his gaze imploring. Issac laughed, tapping his cheek with his index finger, indicating where the food was. Burt wiped it away as Issac spoke.

"Sorry; my brother would always do that to me when I had something on my face, and I guess I just kind of picked it up." Issac shrugged like it was nothing. Burt frowned, noting the doctor's distinct way of talking.

"Why do you talk about him in past-tense, Dr- er, Issac? 'Had', 'Would'?" Burt asked, not worrying about over-stepping his boundaries, since Issac had already jumped over his. Issac smiled sadly at him.

"Gay bashing isn't something to joke about, Burt; it never is."

Burt could feel his cheeks begin to flush with blood, patting the doctor on the shoulder in a manly fashion.

"I ask because I think I heard your son talking on the phone with his boyfriend out in the hallway. Was I correct?" Issac asked.

"Blaine? Oh yeah. The two are practically duct-taped together at the waist," Burt replied. Issac nodded, as if he had just been told he had found the cure for cancer.

"Do you know if your son ever wants kids, Burt? Like, kids of his own?" Issac asked. Again, Burt nodded.

"Yes; he doesn't talk about it much, but I know he does. Blaine does, too, I think," Burt said. Issac smiled at this.

"Well, I came up with something that could maybe make that possible. Just have him take these once a day, okay?" Issac said, pulling out a bottle from his lab coat pocket. Burt took it hesitantly, eyeing the doctor with suspicious eyes.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" He asked. Issac sighed, standing and adjusting his lab coat around his shoulders before walking out the door.

"You don't; you just have to assume that I wouldn't lie about my older brother's death, and I won't lie about this."

Almost 4 years later, Mr. Kurt Hummel-Anderson was air-lifted to the nearest hospital by helicopter, his husband, Blaine, beside him, holding his hand. Kurt screamed in agony, throwing his head back and shrieking. Blaine winced, attempting to hush his husband's screams while not crying out in pain himself as Kurt crushed his hand. Kurt continually complained about abdominal pain, to the point that most of the paramedic team was almost sure that it had to be a rupturing appendix. So sure, in fact, that they almost sent him directly to the operating room without any direct indication that the problem was in his abdominal cavity at all. Ms. Caroline North, head secretary and mother of 12, saw the boys body movements and, as odd as it was for her to comprehend, recognized them. She insisted they sent him in for an ultrasound. Caroline quickly phoned the only OBGYN currently on break, Dr. Annelise Potzkayln. She quickly explained to situation to her, just imagining Annelise' surprised face when she told her she thought that a twenty year old man was pregnant. Dr. Potzkayln gained her composure almost inhumanly fast, though, and quickly ushered the men into an open room with a frantically beating heart. She bit her lip as she gave the writhing man an ultrasound, hearing his heart and nothing else. _Oh, common' Caroline, please don't be wrong,_ Dr. Potzkayln begged in her head. Ah ha! There it was! It was faint, but underneath that loud, booming heart was a tiny noise, like a hummingbirds wings. A baby!

"Let's get him into surgery! Now!" Dr. Potzkayln ordered her confused nurses. Blaine Anderson's eyes widened in shock, tightening his grip on his husbands hand. Dr. Potzkayln lightly pried his hands from his husbands, smiling sadly at him as the paramedics rushed the man into surgery, thinking to herself, _God, how am I going to do this without killing him?_

"Mr. Anderson?" Came a high, female voice. Blaine turned, his frantic eyes falling on the small doctor. Dr. Potzkayln's kind, round face was smiling a thousand watt smile, her slight Russian accent becoming apparent as she practically bounced up and down in excitement.

"Yes?" Blaine asked, his voice panicked. "Is he okay? Please, doctor, just tell me if he's okay!" Blaine begged. Dr. Potzkalyn gave him a coy smile.

"They're both okay; I have to say, you're husband's quite a trooper."

"B-both?" Blaine gulped, his voice raising so high it would give Kurt's a run for it's money. Dr. Potzkayln smirked.

"Did I stutter? Yes, your husband is the first male in history that was born a male to give birth. Congratulations, you have a gorgeous baby girl; 6 pounds, 4 ounces, and a head full of curly black hair."

Blaine thought he was going to die right then and there.

"I gotta say, Mr. Anderson, you and your boo sure do make a cute baby," Lavine Royce said, gazing down at the baby in her arms. Blaine's jaw was practically on he floor, seeing the nurse, who reminded him so much of Mercedes it wasn't even funny, holding a gorgeous baby girl securely in her arms. _My daughter,_ Blaine thought, his eyes welling with tears as he watched the baby. Her little button nose wrinkled up, Kurt's face with Blaine's hair, skin, and lips as she whined. She started to cry loudly, pulling at Nurse Royce's hair with tiny hands. Lavine laughed softly, extracting her hair from the baby's grabbing fingers.

"Got a bit of a hot temper, this little girl does," She laughed, holding out her arms to Blaine. Another attending nurse, Callope Lutz, giggled, and started humming under her breath.

_Le Jazz Hot, maybe,_

_Cause I love my jazz... HOT!_

Blaine laughed, taking the baby out of the nurse's arms. She peered up at him with strikingly blue eyes, her nose wrinkled curiously. Blaine chuckled at her, bouncing the baby on instinct, thinking about how natural it felt to have her in his arms.

"Don't do that, sweetie," He murmured, running a finger down her nose. "You'll get wrinkles."

Neither the nurses, nor Blaine, could stop laughing at the insane look of horror that crossed over the baby's face at that.

"We have a girl, Kurt! A beautiful baby girl!" Blaine stage whispered, clutching his husband's exhausted hand excitedly. Kurt wasn't really listening, though, his eyes locked on the mock-bassinet beside him. The baby inside slumbered soundly, her little fist curled up next to her nose.

"Completely healthy," Blaine continued, not even noticing Kurt's distracted expression as he rambled. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with her health, Kurt! Isn't that amazing?... Kurt? Kurt honey?" Blaine followed his hungry gaze, mentally smacking himself for forgetting that Kurt hadn't held her yet. He gently picked up his baby girl in his arms, admiring her face yet again, her perfect ten fingers, ten toes, as he laid her in his husband's arms. Kurt remained speechless, as he noted the child's striking resemblance to her other father. Her olive-y skin and dark hair was all Blaine, every last bit.

"What should we call her?" Kurt whispered. Blaine's expression turned sheepish, his hands rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"I-I really hope you don't mind, I already took the liberty in naming her," Blaine replied. Kurt's head snapped up, fixing Blaine with a stare. Blaine immediately resorted to ramble-mode. "Well, when I first saw her, one of the nurses said she had a fiery temper, and then another nurse made a quote from the song Le Jazz Hot, which I know you've preformed before, and I just thought... I dunno, the name just fit so perfectly in my mind-" Blaine was cut off.

"Like from _Victor Victoria_?" Kurt asked quietly, his lips twitching upwards. Blaine nodded so fast he looked like a retarded chicken.

"Exactly! So, I mean, the name seemed so apparent, then, I just couldn't stop myself!" Blaine finished, breathless. Kurt gave him a look.

"Just tell me her name, Blaine," Kurt said. Blaine's eyes locked on the child in question; his baby, his _angel._

"Viktoria. Viktoria Annelise. Spelled with a 'k', to give it a little flair of individuality. Annelise, because of Dr. Potzkalyn; neither of you would be here now, if it wasn't for her." Blaine traced a gentle finger horizontally across Kurt's cheek. "Are you mad?"

Kurt just smiled.

"It's perfect."

"Honestly, Nico, you know she's be kicking you with her cleats if she heard you were calling her Gwen," Viktoria joked, before shivering at the cold. Nico noticed, and discretely turned up the heat.

"Yeah yeah, Gwendolyn hates being called Gwen, Gwenie, Gwenie Pie, the works. Viktoria, why are you shivering? It's the middle of September," He asked, putting the car into drive and heading out of McKinley High's driveway. Viktoria shot a group of jocks by the doors a narrow-eyed Kurt-Hummel bitch glare, laying her hand over Nico's on the shift stick with a tight fingered grip. Nico rolled his eyes at her; the girl has two ridiculously famous parents, her own body guards, enough combat training to pass as a certified ninja, and a sparkling wit. In short, nobody messed with Viktoria, and she had an almost crazy Mother Bear instinct over anything she deemed 'Hers'; Nico just happened to be one of those things. That didn't stop her from being constantly on her guard, as it's not like most people in Ohio like the Hummel-Anderson family very much. Viktoria was actually currently the only person in the Hummel-Anderson's immediate family with the guts to come to Ohio for their High School carrier. Gwendolyn, the second eldest child, was twelve and in every sports team that her prestigious private academy offered. Though still an amazing singer, Gwendolyn ("Just Gwendolyn; I prefer my name the way it was given.") insisted that she was not musically inclined enough to move halfway across the country to go to a public school in Ohio simply for it's Glee club. Michele and Patrick, ages eight and three respectively, where still too young to make the decision.

"Yeah, well, we live right below Michigan, which is the state of unpredictable weather, where it's not uncommon to see a person wearing booty shorts and a winter jacket at the same time," Viktoria huffed before climbing into the back seat over the center console. "No peaking." Nico simply rolled his eyes as she began peeling off layers and attempting to pull up her pair of dance sweats while seated.

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Goontard, but still; it's almost seventy degrees outside." Nico stuck his tongue out at her in the side mirror. Viktoria rolled her eyes as she pulled her tank-top over her head.

"Yeah, back to Gwendolyn? She's doing good; no boyfriends for either of the daddies to castrate with kitchen shears, no off-the-wall drug addictions. I'd call that progress!" Viktoria sounded mock-excited as she quickly shoved a tank top over her head and down her stomach. "God, Ms. Neely is going to kill me..."

Nico snorted."Yeah, right. Ms. Neely loves you; you're her best student, little miss I'm-Incredibly-Artistically-Inclined." Viktoria slapped him half-heartedly in the back of the head at that. Smirking, Nico turned the car into the driveway of Madame Neely's Dance Academy before pulling the car to a stop. Viktoria popped her curly dark head over the seat and squinted in order to make sure that yes, they had just stopped at The Academy (as the two had taken to so ominously calling it).

"There you are, ma'am. That'll be five dollars," Nico joked, holding out his hand palm-up. Viktoria simply high-fived him as she climbed back over the seat, avoiding the cup holder with a practiced fluency. Nico rolled his eyes at her exasperatedly.

"Why don't you just get out of the car from the back? It'd be a lot easier, and would save me having to clean boot marks off the vinyl at the end of every day." Viktoria grinned at his words, quickly rolling down the passenger window of the car before opening the door and exiting. Grinning, she leaned back into the car, her freakishly straight white teeth gleaming.

"Because you never stop me." She leaned in quickly and pecked him on one pale, freckle-y cheek before leaning back out of the car, throwing her bag over her shoulder. The smile she tossed him was positively drowning in mirth as she loped away from the car, her hips swaying to an imaginary beat that seems to light up only her world with background noise. "Bye, Nico! Tell Aene I said 'hi'!"

Nobody breathes like that except someone who's insanely sick. That thick, mucus-y intake of breath, like it's a struggle to inhale, and the quick, pant-like exhale. Elle Neely had been teaching jazz, hip hop, advanced ballet and advanced pointe since she was in her early twenties, and knew exactly what kind of breathing that was, and could tell it severity in her sleep. It was the gasp of either a pack-a-day smoker (those people were definitely _not _ dancers under Ms. Neely), or someone who should most assuredly _not_ be in the studio. More like someone who should be in bed, bloodstream running thick with OD-level Sudofed and so much Alka-Seltzer that they couldn't even recognize it's nasty taste. That was the breathing of someone who needs to be sent home. Immediatly.

There were three girls in her class of ten that could possibly be breathing like that; Sara, who had a respiratory infection, Mayere, who had asthma, or Kenna-Deen, who was only recently moved up into Advanced level ballet and wasn't quite used to the effort this class actually took. The rest of the girls were the picture of heath, and had been in this course for years now. They knew when they could toughen something out and when it was time to throw in the towel and go home. They knew their limits.

So why was it that now, as she looked at her class, none of those three showed any signs of lag breathing? Quickly going through her class list, she ran off names inside her head and quickly found the girls with her eyes. Sadie? No, she was fine. Hope or Hannah? Naw, the twins were good, if not totally off task and goofing off. Taylor and Azula were the same. Confused, Ms. Neely turned to little Marcy Johnson, who was watching her with concern, wondering why their coach had stopped then right in the middle of rehearsal. They had a recital in two weeks, and it wasn't like their coach to stop them mid-routine and not tell them why. Ms. Neely's heart dropped when she saw that Marcy was completely healthy, with a pink flush to her pale cheeks from going three minutes into a five minute routine and abruptly stopping.

That only left one.

This was not a sight often saw. In fact, the last time Ms. Neely had witnessed it was almost seven years ago, with a shaky nine year old who refused to go home, despite the fact that her skin was green and she was wiping off spit and vomit from the corners of her mouth with her jacket sleeve. This was the view of a sixteen year old, bent over at the waist and panting loudly through her nose. The only girl in her class that was aloud to dance barefoot during the first ten minutes of practice, the only girl who had so many blisters from ballet, tap, and pointe shoes that she wrapped her whole lower ankle and under sole in bandages, the only girl aloud to wear baggy black sweat pants when the required color was blue. The only girl Ms. Neely had been teaching since she was six.

Viktoria Hummel-Anderson was never sick. In fact, the girl had an almost perfect track record of never catching a cold or falling ill. Perfect attendance in school for three years in a row, never missed a practice. Some of that, though, could probably be placed on the fact that the girl was stubborn as an ox and knew fully well of it. Viktoria never went home. Never.

But it was clear to anyone who bothered to check, Viktoria was not alright.

Bent over at the waist, she was clutching the ballet bar on the back wall with an absurdly tight grip. Her chest was heaving almost three times a second, and you could even hear from the front of the room that she kept swallowing down a mouthful of phlegm (and perhaps other things as well). Her knees wobbled inwards towards each other, her feet slipping slightly as she tried to stay upright. She was tucking a lock of hair behind her ear that was covered in sweat, despite the fact that she hadn't been dancing for more than eight minutes at the most. Viktoria could normally go a solid two hours of dance before she started sweating to even half the degree she was now.

Pushing through her other dancers, Ms. Neely strutted determinedly towards the girl. Upon reaching her, Ms. Neely grabbed an olive-toned arm and tipped a chin back gently to see the face that curtain of thick black curls hid. Viktoria's eyes were glassy, and her lower lip was quivering slightly from the effort she was putting into simply standing. Her cheeks were cherry red, her eyes taking on an almost gray-ish sheen and her lips were slowly going from chalky white to cornflower blue. In a way, it was sickeningly patriotic.

"Viktoria...?" Ms. Neely trailed off. Placing a hand on the girl's cheek, Ms. Neely leaned in so that her face was close to the girls. Elle wasn't worried about being vomited on, as most teachers would be in this situation. She'd practically mothered this girl with the amount of care she had placed upon her in the past ten years. Viktoria's eyes were vacant as she turned tipped her chin up to level with Ms. Neely's.

"D-Daddy..." she whimpered, her voice thin and fragile. Abruptly, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she fell limp in Ms. Neely's arms like a broken wind-up toy. Her knees buckled, the two of them sent cascading upon the floor as the teenager's body crumpled like miss-print office paper. The other dancers gasped, sprinting forwards and tumbling over one another in a mad attempt to get closer to their friend. In the end, there was a loose semi-circle around the unconscious girl, and a hysterical Ms. Neely clutching the form to her chest and shaking her slightly, trying to coax her into understanding 'this is not a game right now, child, come out now.' When the child remained unresponsive, Ms. Neely could feel the panic rising like a golf ball lodged in her throat.

"Someone call an ambulance! Now! Hurry!"

As one lithe ballet dancer raced off to the locker room in search of her Blackberry, the others leaned into one another and babbled agitated delirium, wringing their hands in their laps feverishly.

"Oh my god, Viktoria..."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"What's going on?"

"I'll bet it was gay bashing again, just you wait and see! It's September 19th all over again, what has it been, eight years now?"

"Is that the paramedic sirens?"

"Oh my _God, __Viktoria..."_

"What are her dads going to say?"

"..."

"Oh my God..."

**Feedback is golden.**


End file.
